Read Online A Fistful of Rain by Greg Rucka - Free Book Online

watching me closely, not quite staring, but really focusing. Then she gestured at the seat that Click had vacated and added, “You want to sit down?”
    I looked at Graham, but Graham wasn’t having any, focusing instead on the leather portfolio he was holding in his hands. Click barely gave me eye contact before looking away to Vanessa.
    “You’re canning me?” I directed it at Van, trying to keep my voice strong. It came out too loud, and bounced around the lobby. Early risers glanced our way.
    “Why don’t you sit down?” Van motioned at the chair again, then fell back into hers.
    I stared at her, but she was only giving me her profile now, facing the empty seat. Neither Graham nor Click made a move or a sound.
    I had to set down my bags to take the chair, and it was clumsy, and humiliating.
    Van waited for me to get settled. “You were really fucked-up yesterday.”
    “Are you canning me?” I asked again.
    Van shook her head slightly, as if to say that I had her wrong, that wasn’t what this was about at all. “Been a long tour, Mim.”
    “Why won’t you give me an answer?”
    “Gonna be even longer, now that we’ve added all those European dates.” She glanced past me, around the lobby. Out the windows, you could see the harbor and the opera house. “I’m not sure you’re up to it.”
    “What—I don’t even understand what . . . what are you
saying,
Van?”
    She focused on me again. “Your drinking’s way out of control.”
    Heat flared in my cheeks and neck, and I realized the humiliation I’d been feeling had simply been the orchestra tuning up, going through their scales. We’d hit the overture now. I opened my mouth and couldn’t find my voice enough to respond.
    “We’re worried about you.”
    “You bitch,” I said.
    “Mim, you were so drunk the second night in Melbourne you barely made it through the encore.”
    “My playing stands,” I said. “My playing is solid, this is not about my fucking playing!”
    “You don’t need to shout.”
    “I can’t believe you’re doing this! You didn’t have shit to sing before I came along, you were an actress with a rhythm section, that’s it! Now you’re cutting me loose because I drink? At least I’m not chasing dick onstage, Vanessa!”
    She pinked up, and maybe was rethinking her choice of setting for the scene. “What I do in my time has never gotten in the way of the band.”
    “You’re full of shit,” I said. “This isn’t about my drinking, that’s just your fucking excuse. This is about that fucking
Stone
piece, that’s what this is about.”
    “What?”
    “You don’t want me eclipsing your light. You don’t want anyone looking past you and your bass to see me on guitar.”
    “Jesus, are you
still
drunk? You’re not threatening me, Mim, and you never have. You
can’t,
it’s not
in
you. I’ve never argued that you weren’t the better musician, the better writer. I’ve never pretended that wasn’t the case. But if you were up front, Tailhook would never have come this far. Because even though you can play like fire, you’re a crap showgirl.”
    “Fuck you—”
    “This is about the band!”
    The shout shut me, and everyone else in the lobby, up.
    Van wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, lines digging in around her eyes. “Graham has a check for you. What you’re owed from the last four gigs. He’s got a ticket for you, too, back home, the flight’s in a couple hours. I’ve talked to A&R and the label, and they know the situation, and I’ve told them that we’re replacing you for the rest of the tour.”
    “You tell the press that I got canned because of a drinking problem, I will personally run a truck over you first chance I get.”
    “Jesus, Mim, I’m your
friend,
I would never do that!” She shook her head slightly, as if she couldn’t believe I could be so hurtful. “There’ll be a statement, saying that you’re wasted from the tour, that you just need some time off. We’ll be